


Cornered

by vaultboii



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Bantering, Cave-In, Deadlock Gang, Deadlock Zine, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 06:18:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18026348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaultboii/pseuds/vaultboii
Summary: “Before you blow my ears out – I know. I screwed up,” McCree started.





	Cornered

**Author's Note:**

> part of the wonderful deadlock zine!!! preorders are over so I can post the full piece now, had fun writing this!

McCree said, “Oh, don’t look at me like that.”

Across him, Bob huffed steam and took two fingers off his side. The omnic had been barely grazed by a lucky shot, something that had only scraped the paint off the butler and made him jumpy. Empty ammo cartridges were spread around the butler, and the shotgun the omnic had borrowed was propped against the entrance. In his other servos, a blowtorch was handy.

His buddy, however, had not been so lucky. Right now the sniper only had a left arm good, sniper rifle slung across his knees. His normally green eyes were flaring warning red under his hood, and he had leaned into Bob’s grip to allow the other omnic to seal the missing arm off. Crimson optics fixated on McCree with hostile intentions as the omnic flipped a combat knife in impatience.

Bars huffed. “You pissed us sideways again, ‘Cree,” he snarled.

Which, he supposed he had. On the flipside, at that given point in time McCree had thought they had the heist in the bag. Like, don’t blame a fellow for being optimistic, ‘cuz that warehouse had been cleaner than the spit-n-shine glimmer of Ashe’s bike. On top of that, only smacked with a few guards? Icing on the _beautiful_ cake.

If he was being truthful, that should’ve been the warning sign. No damn warehouse was emptier than Ashe’s mansion, and to have stumbled across one that looked like the post-apocalypse had swallowed the thing up? Should’ve been suspicious. Yet here McCree had been the fool and swallowed the bait hook, line, and _sinker_. Waltzed into the place, let his guard down, and started nitpicking the crates they were going to steal like he was the King of the Castle.

And then, halfway through the raid, right when things were going _peachy_ , the artillery showed up.

“Before you blow my ears out – I know. I screwed up,” McCree started.

Bob shook the hand that wasn’t trying to patch a wire back together, completely agreeing.

“Come-on, Bob, don’t give your old friend that. The tip was anonymous. How was a young, naïve man like me supposed to possibly guess about the big guns?” He put on the most hurt, mocking voice he could possibly manage. Bob waved a hand and went back to tinkering.

“You didn’t mention the anonymous part to Boss, bugger.” The sniper winced at another reconnecting wire, and fixed an glare at him. “You said easy job. Slick. Clean. Simple. A _job for us three squirts, ay buddies?_ ” The mimicking of McCree’s voice was low and gruff. “Now I’m stuck in a cave with half my wires frizzled! Whoop-de-doo to _easy jobs,_ eh?”

 _Low blow._ McCree gave him a charming grin brimmed with teeth, cutting short of hostility. “Oh, like you’re one to talk,” he droned back. “You missed seven shots, partner. Too busy admiring codpieces with the other sniper, eh?”

At times like these, he ought to thank Bob for being such the kind gentleman. The butler had a stern grip on the sniper’s arm, so when Bars jumped up to put presumably seven of those missed rounds into McCree’s face, the big ‘bot yanked the omnic back down. Sparks frizzled, and the plating went a beautiful medley of loud shrieks against the cave wall. Bars kicked against the hard grip of Bob, cussed a bit, then kicked some more and laid still.

“ _Frag_ you, ‘Cree,” the sniper glitched, and then slunk back against the wall.

“And now he wants to frag _me_ ,” McCree grunted and then spun the barrel of his revolver open. Five shots sprinkled to the ground. Dayum. “Make up your mind pal; you upset, or you about to grovel at my feet? I’d be plenty happy for the latter, thank you kindly. Needed some new grovel on my new boots.”

Bars growled. “If I had my rifle -”

“You’d miss me?”

The sniper tried to leap up again. McCree leaned back and enjoyed, for the moment, the sound of an outraged omnic. Alas, the moment was short-lived, for Bob fixed him a glare over the pinned sniper and blinked a severe warning.

Spoilsport.

“Alright, alright, simmer down.” He took off his hat and waved it in surrender to the sniper omnic. “You’re hurting Bobs’ side. He can’t seal off your arm if you’re kicking him in his wounded bits.”

Pausing mid-curse, Bars looked to Bob. The big omnic shrugged, and continued sealing off the arm of his pal. “Scrap,” he said and then slunk down again. “Frag you again, Cree.”

McCree thought about retorting, and bit his tongue.

Inevitably the hostility in the cave faded, and died to boredom as hours embedded on. Just as such, McCree kept his eyes glued to the entrance of the cave, and listened well for any trouble. They were far from the warehouse —not as far as but that didn’t mean a few patrols wouldn’t wander their way into the rocky canyons near the roads. Bob was a hard bot to hide.

As chance be it, around sixteen military time the sound of rotors soon filled the air over the cave. McCree scrambled for more rounds, came up with twenty. Not enough to take on a ‘copter squadron, barely enough to make a dent if there was more than one copter. He grimaced and filled his revolver.

Behind him, Bars snorted. His optics were lit scarlet now. “Ought to use my rifle if you’re planning to take ‘em out.”

“I ain’t shooting down no damn helicopter unless you plan to haul that tin-carcass of yours all the way back to the rendezvous point.”

“And I kept telling both of ya to leave me back at the warehouse, but here we are,” Bars shot back. Bob let him stand and perch near McCree, staying back now to tend at the scrapes and internal damage he was hosting. The one-armed omnic knelt and lifted his hood up. “So, the plan?”

“Ashe hasn’t dialled in. We stay here until she notifies us of the evac team.” McCree caught the edge in Bars next stare and shrugged. “Boss orders. That was the fallback plan, remember?”

“Yeah, the fallback plan until the copter showed.” Bright light shone down suddenly at the entrance, and all three of them recoiled back until it passed. When the whistle of rotors died away was when Bars popped back up, one hand now full of submachine gun. “Bob, what’s your status?”

Bob lifted one arm, and checked out as half-ammo depleted.

“Frag,” Bars said again. “Alright, fallback plan 2. We take out the missile launcher. Bob.”

 _Absolutely not,_ McCree’s brain helpfully supplied. What politely came out of his mouth instead was a snarl. “Oy, oy, what do you think you’re doing?”

“Taking action,” Bars said back. Bob was now ignoring them both. “Where is it?”

“I have never seen an one-armed omnic try to fire a missile launcher.” The omnic turned around, full of spite, and found McCree with said launcher in his lap. “You tryna blow yourself up?”

“Yeah, you’d like that.” Bars stalked over and put out the hand. “Quit stallin’. Hand it over.”

“I said we _ain’t_ taking on no damn helicopter.” McCree swatted the submachine gun down. Bars had the audacity to look offended. “Do you think I want an explosion? That’s a giant sign saying _hey, look Ashe we blew up this helicopter and attracted the attention of all the military might!_ Do you think the missus will send a nice ol’ evac team for us then?”

“I think it might come to blowing things up if we get shot at,” Bars hissed back.

“And I think you’re an absolute moron. Sit down.”

The great flare of vents flickered on, an omnic’s way of inhaling, and continued steady. At this rate, the rant Bars was ready to fling directly at McCree would be full of insults, ferocity and shrieking words. Then the ‘copter would hear them bickering, and then seven squads would definitely come down to tear them a new one. The missus wouldn’t be pleased if she had to haul all three of them from the prisons, and since McCree had been leading this raid, all blame would go to _him_. He wasn’t about to be shanked to kitchen-duty because some trigger-happy omnic had gone terminator.

“Sit down,” and this time it snapped out of his mouth in blistering heat. McCree rested the hammer against the side of his face and stared Bars down. “Drop the submachine. Don’t you even _think_ about leaping into my lap.” He tapped the scope of the launcher. “This stays here, and will remain here.”

“But.”

“I said, _sit down._ ”

Bars opened his mouth, thought better of it, and sat down.

“Good boy.”

He turned. Through this entire standoff Bob had been patiently waiting, a lone bodyguard watching them as if they were two dogs barking at each other. Only when Bars had finally settled down to take out his combat knife was when the bigger omnic edged closer to McCree. His optics remained friendly, but flickered as if some wires weren’t holding too steady in his rust-bucket. One hand rose and held something out to him.

“What’s up?” McCree asked quietly.

Bob shrugged. He liked that about Bob. Omnic of few words and fewer loyalties. From the looks of things, he was probably handing McCree a bunch of spare revolver ammo he found in a spare pocket or something. That was Bob. Heavy duty ammo canister and tank. He reached out to take the surprise Bob was holstering this time.

And found Ashe staring back at him, hologram alight with the red of her eyes.

_Ah, so this is what betrayal felt like._

He shot Bob a stare weighed with nineteen years of hatred, which earned him only another shrug and green optics going to ceiling. Bars, still stuck in his time-out corner, snickered and started to flick his combat knife again.

Ashe said, in the tones of that mother who was disappointed but not surprised, “McCree, what the absolute goddamn were you thinking putting my butler on the line like that?”

Not even a friendly hello. McCree rubbed at his ears and put the second best grin he had for the boss. Ashe only raised one eyebrow as response. “Well,” and that was sad, the way the words cracked in his throat as if he was fresh off the barn. “There were some technical difficulties, but ah, we sorted through ‘em.”

“He pissed us over,” Bars called from his corner.

“Ignore him.” The Ashe onscreen lowered her eyebrow. Her ears began to grow very, very red. “But, hey, I reckon the entire facility is empty now if you wanna swing by there. We’ve proven enough a distraction. Easy takings.”

“McCree."

The lovely sniper had the audacity to giggle.

“Okay, okay,” and he submitted to the imminent fate of kitchen duty. “We’re surrounded by seven ‘copters with rounding squads. Bars lost an arm. Bob is…well Bob has something going on internally and I’m not about to lose one of my very fragile, organic arms trying to stick my arm in his chest to patch him up any time soon.” He waved a hand. “We got a few supplies, but nothing packing heavy. Mission was a bust.”

“Just a bust?”

“Absolutely fragged,” McCree deadpanned.

Ashe sniffed. It echoed over the feedback of the hologram. “Lord Almighty,” she said, and turned away from the camera. A few barking orders were issued, and suddenly footsteps were moving back and forth in the audio of the hologram. McCree assumed it was her yelling at the lackeys to come and rescue their stranded mission. “Okay. Hold tight. The Triplets are heading your way for a distraction. Rendezvous point is the same. Do not alert those ‘copters.”

“Better tell that to Bars.”

“Oh, why don’t you –”

“Quiet.” The missus sighed, loud and clear. “Bob, if they start squabbling again feel free to pick them up and haul them. You’re the fastest there anyways.” Bob shrugged for a third and final time, but his optics lit up in something McCree would describe as a sadistic hostility. “Do you copy?”

A pause. McCree found hesitation in him to argue. However, cornered as he was, there was no arguing. “Copy.”

“Good.” Ashe said, and the hologram shut off.

McCree closed his eyes, and handed it back to Bob.

“Yikes, woe to the poor old cowboy.” Footsteps moved closer, and suddenly a thin hand was on his shoulder mockingly sympathetic. “Kitchen duty calls, can’t you hear it?”

“Callin’ you too, wise-guy,” McCree reminded him. The omnic hummed with laughter and removed his friendly hand. He found a smile quirking up anyways. “Let’s head. The Triplets probably gonna poke those ‘copters with a mighty big stick. Bob, get the crate.”

Bob hauled him up, and shoved him to the direction of the cave entrance. “And yet _I_ can’t use the big sticks. Go, scout. Bob, would ya get a move on.”

“One arm, lemme remind you.” Hup. Here we go. Dashing outside, he cocked the revolver and aimed to the midnight sky. Nothing showed but the twinkle of stars. “Out. Let’s go. Move. Bob.”

“Aight, fair enough.” And they were off. “But listen, I’d still hit it better than those old triplets anyways.”

“Like you hit that other sniper?”

“Shut up.”

Bob listened, and watched; and then, with a great heavy sigh, moved forth to pick the both of them up.

 _(Squads these days_ , he thought.)


End file.
